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By bequest of ( -* r f a *£- 

William Lukens Shoemaker 



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THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 




BOSTON 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1875 



C 



z* 



75*371 

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Copyright, 1875. 
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



Gift. 
W. L. Shoemaker 

7 S '06 



University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



— • — 

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. Page 

J I. The Workshop of Hephaestus ... 3 

1 Y II. Olympus 8 

)K up III. Tower op Prometheus on Mount Caucasus 10. 

£ £ IV. The Air 19 

^ ID. 

S \\i V. The House op Epimetheus ... 21 

VI. In the Garden 28 

VII. The House of Epimetheus ... 42 

VIII. In the Garden 48 



THE HANGING OP THE CRANE ... 55 

MORITURI SALUTAMUS 73 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Flight the Fourth. 

Charles Sumner .95 

Travels by the Fireside .... 98 

Cadenabria 101 

Monte Cassino 104 



i v CONTENTS. 

Amalfi 11° 

The Sermon of St. Francis .... 116 

Belisarius ' H9 

Songo River 123 

A BOOK OF SONNETS. 

Three Friends of Mine 129 

Chaucer 134 

Shakespeare 135 

Milton 136 

Keats 137 

The Galaxy 138 

The Sound of the Sea 139 

A Summer Day by the Sea .... 140 

The Tides 141 

A Shadow 142 

A Nameless Grave 143 

Sleep 144 

The Old Bridge at Florence . . . .145 

II Ponte Vecchio di Firenze . . . 140 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 
I. 

THE WORKSHOP OF HEPH.ESTUS. 

HEPHJESTUS, standing before the statue of Pandora. 

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's throne, 
Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts 
Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works 
Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or Olympus, 
But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting 
Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form 
Before me stands perfect in every part. 
Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair, 
When first upwafted by caressing winds 
She came to high Olympus, and the gods 



4 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her hair 
Was cinctured ; thus her floating drapery 
Was like a cloud about her, and her face 
Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. 

THE VOICE OF ZEUS. 

Is thy work done, Hephaestus? 

HEPH.ESTUS. 

It is finished ! 

THE VOICE. 

Not finished till I breathe the breath of life 
Into her nostrils, and she moves* and speaks. 

HEPH.ESTUS. 

Will she become immortal like ourselves ? 

THE VOICE. 

The form that thou hast fashioned out of clay 
Is of the earth and mortal; but the spirit, 



THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHAESTUS. 5 

The life, the exhalation of my breath, 

Is of diviner essence and immortal. 

The gods shall shower on her their benefactions, 

She shall possess all gifts : the gift of song, 

The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, 

The fascination and the nameless charm 

That shall lead all men captive. 

HEPHAESTUS. 

Wherefore ? wherefore ? 

A wind shakes the house. 

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind 

Through all the halls and chambers of my house ! 

Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom 

Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed 

Beside a river in the rippling current 

Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her head. 

She gazes round about as if amazed ; 

She is alive ; she breathes, but yet she speaks not ! 

Pandora descends from the pedestal. 



6 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

CHORUS OF THE GRACES. 
• AGLAIA. 

In the workshop of Hephaestus 

What is this I see ? 
Have the Gods to four increased us 

Who were only three ? 
Beautiful in form and feature, 

Lovely as the day. 
Can there be so fair a creature 

Formed of common clay ? 

THALIA. 

O sweet, pale face ! lovely eyes of azure, 
Clear as the waters of a brook that run 
Limpid and laughing in the summer sun ! 
O golden hair that like a miser's treasure 

In its abundance overflows the measure ! 
O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest on 
With the soft, undulating gait of one 
Who moveth as if motion were a pleasure ! 



THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHAESTUS. 7 

By what name shall I call thee ? Nymph or Muse, 

Callirrhoe or Urania ? Some sweet name 
. Whose every syllable is a caress 
Would best befit thee ; but I cannot choose, 
Nor do I care to choose ; for still the same, 
Nameless or named, will be thy loveliness. 

EUPHROSYNE. 

Dowered with all celestial gifts, 

Skilled in every art 
That ennobles and uplifts 

And delights the heart, 
Fair on earth shall be thy fame 

As thy face is fair, 
And Pandora be the name 

Thou henceforth shalt bear. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



II. 



OLYMPUS. 



HERMES, 'putting on his sandals. 

Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods, 
And I, who am their herald, most of all. 
No rest have I, nor respite. I no sooner 
Unclasp- the winged sandals from my feet, 
Than I again must clasp them, and depart 
Upon some foolish errand. But to-day 
The errand is not foolish. Never yet 
With greater joy did I obey the summons 
That sends me earthward. I will fly so swiftly 
That my caduceus in the whistling air 
Shall make a sound like the Pandaean pipes, 
Cheating the shepherds; for- to-day I go, 
Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, to lead 



OLYMPUS. 



A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower, 
And by my cunning arguments persuade him 
To marry her. What mischief lies concealed 
In this design I know not ; but I know 
Who thinks of marrying hath already taken 
One step upon the road to penitence. 
Such embassies delight me. Forth I launch 
On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall 
Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him 
Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. 
I sink, I fly ! The yielding element • 
Folds itself round about me like an arm, 
And holds me as a mother holds her child. 



10 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



III. 

TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I hear the trumpet of Alectryon 
Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to facie, 
And all the heavens are full of prophecies 
And evil auguries. Blood-red last night 
I saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent moon 
Sank through the mist, as if it were the scythe 
His parricidal hand had flung far down 
The western steeps. ye Immortal Gods, 
What evil are ye plotting and contriving ? 

HERMES and PANDORA at the threshold. 
PANDORA. 

I cannot cross the threshold. An unseen 



TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. 11 

And icy hand repels me. These blank walls 
Oppress me with their weight ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Powerfnl ye are, 
But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight 
Against Necessity. The Fates control you, 
As they do us, and so far w T e are equals ! 

PANDORA. 

Motionless, passionless, companionless, 

He sits there muttering in his beard. His voice 

Is like a river flowing underground ! 

HERMES. 

Prometheus, hail ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Who calls me ? 

HERMES. 

It is I. 

Dost thou not know me ? 



12 THE MASQUE OF PAX DOHA. 

PROMETHEUS. 

By thy winged cap 
And winged heels I know thee. Thou art Hermes, 
Captain of thieves ! Hast thou again been stealing 
The heifers of Admetus in the sweet 
Meadows of asphodel ? or Hera's girdle ? 
Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon ? 

HERMES. 

And thou, Prometheus ; say, hast thou again 
Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot-wheels 
To light thy furnaces ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why comest thou hither 

So early in the dawn ? 

HERMES. 

The Immortal Gods 
Know naught of late or early. Zeus himself 
The omnipotent hath sent me. 



TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. 13 
PROMETHEUS. 

For what purpose ? 

HERMES. 

To bring this maiden to thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I mistrust 
The Gods and all their gifts. If they have sent her 
It is for no good purpose. 

HERMES. 

What disaster 
Could she bring on thy house, who is a woman ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

The Gods are not my friends, nor am I theirs. 
Whatever comes from them, though in a shape 
As beautiful as this, is evil only. 
Who art thou ? 



14 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

PANDORA. 

One who, though to thee unknown, 
Yet knoweth thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How shouldst thou know me, woman ? 

PANDORA. 

Who knoweth not Prometheus the humane ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Prometheus the unfortunate ; to whom 
Both Gods and men have shown themselves un- 
grateful. 
When every spark was quenched on every hearth 
Throughout the earth, I brought to man the fire 
And all its ministrations. My reward 
Hath been the rock and vulture. 

HERMES. 

But the Gods 
At last relent and pardon. 



TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. 15 
PROMETHEUS. 

They relent not; 
They pardon not ; they are implacable, 
Bevengeful, unforgiving ! 

HERMES. 

As a pledge 
Of reconciliation they have sent to thee 
This divine being, to be thy companion, 
And bring into thy melancholy house 
The sunshine and the fragrance of her youth. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I need them not. I have within myself 
All that my heart desires ; the ideal beauty 
Which the creative faculty of mind 
Fashions and follows in a thousand shapes 
More lovely than the real. My own thoughts 
Are my companions ; my designs and labors 
And aspirations are my only friends. 



16 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

HERMES. 

Decide not rashly. The decision made 
Can never be recalled. The Gods implore not, 
Plead not, solicit not ; they only offer 
Choice and occasion, which once being passed 
Keturn no more. Dost thou accept the gift ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape 
It comes to me, with whatsoever charm 
To fascinate my sense, will I receive. 
Leave me. 

PANDORA. 

Let us go hence. I will not stay. 

HERMES. 

"We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and all 
The silence and the solitude of thought, 
The endless bitterness of unbelief, 
The loneliness of existence without love. 



TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON MOUNT CAUCASUS. 17 

CHORUS OF THE FATES. 
CLOTHO. 

How the Titan, the defiant, 
The self-centred, self-reliant, 
AYrapped in visions and illusions, 
Bobs himself of life's best gifts ! 
Till by all the storm-winds shaken, 
By the blast of fate overtaken, 
Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, 
In the mists of his confusions 
To the reefs of doom he drifts ! 

LACHESIS. 

Sorely tried and sorely tempted, 
From no agonies exempted, 
In the penance of his trial, 
And the discipline of pain ; 
Often by illusions cheated, 
Often baffled and defeated 



18 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

In the tasks to be completed, 
He, by toil and self-denial, 
To the highest shall attain. 



Tempt no more the noble schemer ; 
Bear unto some idle dreamer 
This new toy and fascination, 
This new dalliance and delight ! 
To the garden where reposes 
Epimetheus crowned with roses, 
To the door that never closes 
Upon pleasure and temptation, 
Bring this vision of the night ! 



THE AIR. 19 



IV. 



THE AIR. 



HERMES, returning to Olympus. 

As lonely as the tower that he inhabits, 

As firm and cold as are the crags about him, 

Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of Zeus 

Alone can move him ; but the tender heart 

Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat, 

Hammers and flames like all his brother's forges ! 

Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, 

My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar 

Into the air returning to Olympus. 

O joy of motion ! delight to cleave 

The infinite realms of space, the liquid ether, 

Through the warm sunshine and the cooling cloud, 

Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud ! 



20 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

With one touch of my swift and winged feet, 
I spurn the solid earth, and leave it rocking 
As rocks the bough from which a bird takes wing. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 21 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful apparition ! go not hence ! 
Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice 
Is a celestial melody, and thy form 
Self-poised as if it floated on the air ! 

PANDORA. 

Np Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, 
But a mere woman fashioned out of clay 
And mortal as the rest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy face is fair; 
There is a wonder in thine azure eyes 
That fascinates me. Thy whole presence seems 



22 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. 
Say, would thy star like Merope's grow dim 
If thou shouldst wed beneath thee ? 

PANDORA. 

Ask me not; 
I cannot answer thee. I only know 
The Gods have sent me hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I believe, 
And thus believing am most fortunate. 
It was not Hermes led thee here, but Eros, 
And swifter than his arrows were thine eyes. 
In wounding me. There was no moment's space 
Between my seeing thee and loving thee. 
O, what a tell-tale face thou hast ! Again 
I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. 



They do but answer to the love in thine, 



TEE HOUSE OF EP1METHEUS. 23 

Yet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love me. 
Thou knowest me not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps I know thee better 
Than had I known thee longer. Yet it seems 
That I have always known thee, and but now 
Have found thee. Ah, I have been waiting long. 

PANDORA. 

How beautiful is this house ! The atmosphere 
Breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers 
Seem full of welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They not only seem, 
But truly are. This dwelling and its master 
Belong to thee. 

PANDORA. 

Here let me stay forever ! 
There is a spell upon me. 



24 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou thyself 
Art the enchantress,, and I feel thy power 
Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense 
In an Elysian dream. 

PANDORA. 

0, let me stay. 
How beautiful are all things round about me, 
Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls ! 
What treasures hast thou here ! Yon oaken chest, 
Carven with figures and embossed with gold, 
Is wonderful to look upon ! What choice 
And precious things dost thou keep hidden in it ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I know not. T is a mystery. 

PANDORA. 

Hast thou never 
Lifted the lid ? 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 25 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The oracle forbids. 
Safely concealed there from all mortal eyes 
Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. 
Seek not to know what they have hidden from thee, 
Till they themselves reveal it. 

PANDORA. 

As thou wilt. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Let ns go forth from this mysterious place. 
The garden walks are pleasant at this hour; 
The nightingales among the sheltering boughs 
Of populous and many-nested trees 
Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me 
By what resistless charms or incantations 
They won their mates. 

PANDORA. 

Thou dost not need a teacher. 

They go out. 



26 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

What the Immortals 
Confide to thy keeping, 
Tell unto no man ; 
Waking or sleeping, 
Closed be thy portals 
To friend as to foeman. 

Silence conceals it; 
The word that is spoken 
Betrays and reveals it ; 
By breath or by token 
The charm may be broken. 

With shafts of their splendors 
The Gods unforgiving 
Pursue the offenders, 
The dead and the living ! 
Fortune forsakes them, 
Nor earth shall abide them, 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 27 

Nor Tartarus hide them ; 
Swift wrath overtakes them ! 

With useless endeavor, 

Forever, forever, 

Is Sisyphus rolling 

His stone up the mountain ! 

Immersed in the fountain, 

Tantalus tastes not 

The water that wastes not ! 

Through ages increasing 

The pangs that afflict him, 

With motion unceasing 

The wheel of Ixion 

Shall torture its victim ! 



28 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



VI. 

IN THE GARDEN. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Yon snow-white cloud that sails sublime in ether 
Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a swan 
Flies to fair-ankled Leda ! 

PANDORA. 

Or perchance 
Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of Hera, 
That bore the Centaurs. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The divine and human. 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Gently swaying to and fro, 
Eocked by all the winds that blow, 



IN THE GARDE X. 29 

Bright with sunshine from above 
Dark with shadow from below, 
Beak to beak and breast to breast 
In the cradle of their nest, 
Lie the fledglings of our love. 

ecuo. 
Love ! love ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Hark ! listen ! Hear how sweetly overhead 
The feathered flute-players pipe their songs of love, 
And echo answers, love and only love. 

CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Every flutter of the wing, 
Every note of song we sing, 
Every murmur, every tone, 
Is of love and love alone. 

ECHO. 

Love alone ! 



30 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who would not love, if loving she might be 
Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven? 

PANDORA. 

Ah, who would love, if loving she might be 
Like Semele consumed and burnt to ashes? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence knowest thou these stories ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes taught me; 
He told me all the history of the Gods. 

CHORUS OF REEDS. 

Evermore a sound shall be 
In the reeds of Arcady, 
Evermore a low lament 
Of unrest and discontent, 



IN THE GARDEN. 31 

As the storj is retold 
Of the nymph so coy and cold, 
Who with frightened feet outran 
The pursuing steps of Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is made, 
And when he plays upon it to the shepherds 
They pity him, so mournful is the sound. 
Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was. 

PANDORA. 

Nor thou as Pan be rude and mannerless. 

PROMETHEUS, without. 

Ho ! Epimetheus ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

'T is my brother's voice ; 
A sound unwelcome and inopportune 



S'Z THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

As was the braying of Silenus' ass. 
Heard in Cybele's garden. 

PANDORA. 

Let me go. 
I would not be found here. I would not see him. 

She escapes among the trees. 
CHORUS OF DRYADES. 

Haste and hide thee,, 

Ere too late, 

In these thickets intricate ; 

Lest Prometheus 

See and chide thee, 

Lest some hurt 

Or harm betide thee, 

Haste and hide thee ! 

- PROMETHEUS, entering. 

Who was it fled from here? I saw a shape 
Flitting among the trees. 



IN THE GARDEN 33 

EPIMETHEUS. 

It was Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Epimetheus ! Is it then in vain 

That I have warned thee ? Let me now implore. 

Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous guest. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods love they honor with such guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods would destroy they first make mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Shall I refuse the gifts they send to me ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Eeject all gifts that come from higher powers. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. 
2* c 



34 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Make not thyself the slave of any woman. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Make not thyself the judge of any man. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I judge thee not ; for thou art more than man ; 
Thou art descended from Titanic race,, 
And hast a Titan's strength, and faculties 
That make thee godlike ; and thou sittest here 
Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, 
And beaten with her sandals. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O my brother ! 
Thou drivest me to madness with thy taunts. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And me thou drivest to madness with thy follies. 
Come with me to my tower on Caucasus : 



IN THE GARDEN. 35 

See there my forges in the roaring caverns, 
Beneficent to man, and taste the joy 
That springs from labor. Read with me the stars, 
And learn the virtues that lie hidden in plants, 
And all things that are useful. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

O my brother ! 
I am not as thou art. Thou dost inherit 
Our father's strength, and I our mother's weakness : 
The softness of the Oceanides, 
The yielding nature that cannot resist. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Because thou wilt not. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Nay; because I cannot. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Assert thyself; rise up to thy full height; 
Shake from thy soul these dreams effeminate, 



36 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

These passions born of indolence and ease. 
Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe the air 
Of mountains, and their unapproachable summits 
Will lift thee to the level of themselves. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The roar of forests and of waterfalls, 
The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud 
And undistinguishable voices calling, 
Are in my ear ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

O, listen and obey. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou leadest me as a child. I follow thee. 

They go out. 
CHORUS OF OREADES. 

Centuries old are the mountains; 
Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted 



IN THE GARDEN. 37 

Helios crowns by day, 

Pallid Selene by night; 

From, their bosoms nptossed 

The snows are driven and drifted, 

Like Tithonus' beard 

Streaming dishevelled and white. 

Thnnder and tempest of wind 
Their trumpets blow in the vastness; 
Phantoms of mist and rain, 
Cloud and the shadow of cloud, 
Pass and repass by the gates 
Of their inaccessible fastness ; 
Ever unmoved they stand, 
Solemn, eternal, and proud. 

VOICES OF THE WATERS. 

Plooded by rain and snow 
In their inexhaustible sources, 
Swollen by affluent streams 



38 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

Hurrying onward and hurled 
Headlong over the crags, 
The impetuous water-courses, 
Rush and roar and plunge 
Down to the nethermost world. 

Say, have the solid rocks 
Into streams of silver been melted, 
Flowing over -the plains, 
Spreading to lakes in the fields ? 
Or have the mountains, the giants, 
The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, 
Scattered their arms abroad; 
Flung in the meadows their shields ? 

VOICES OF THE WINDS. 

High on their turreted cliffs 
That bolts of thunder have shattered, 
Storm-winds muster and blow 
Trumpets of terrible breath; 



in the garden: 39 

Then from the gateways rush, 
And before them routed and scattered 
Sullen the cloud-rack flies, 
Pale with the pallor of death. 

Onward the hurricane rides, 
And flee for shelter the shepherds ; 
White are the frightened leaves, 
Harvests with terror are white; 
Panic seizes the herds, 
And even the lions and leopards, 
Prowling -no longer for prey, 
Crouch in their caverns with fright. 

VOICES OF THE FOREST. 

Guarding the mountains around 
Majestic the forests are standing, 
Bright are their crested helms, 
Dark is their armor of leaves ; 
Filled with the breath of freedom 



40 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

Each bosom subsiding, expanding. 
Now like the ocean sinks, 
Now like the ocean upheaves. 

Planted firm on the rock, 
With foreheads stern and defiant, 
Loud they shout to the winds, 
Loud to the tempest they call ; 
Naught but Olympian thunders, 
That blasted Titan and Giant, 
Them can uproot and overthrow, 
Shaking the earth with their fall. 

CHORUS OF OREADES. 

These are the Yoices Three 

Of winds and forests and fountains, 

Yoices of earth and of air, 

Murmur and rushing of streams, 

Making together one sound, 

The mysterious voice of the mountains, 



IN THE GARDEN. 41 

Waking the sluggard that sleeps, 
Waking the dreamer of dreams. 

These are the Voices Three, 
That speak of endless endeavor, 
Speak of endurance and strength, 
Triumph and fulness of fame, 
Sounding about the world, 
An inspiration forever, 
Stirring the hearts of men, 
Shaping their end and their aim. 



42 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



VII. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

PANDORA. 

Left to myself I wander as I will, 
And as my fancy leads me, through this house, 
Nor could I ask a dwelling more complete 
Were I indeed the Goddess that he deems me. 
No mansion of Olympus, framed to be 
The habitation of the Immortal Gods, 
Can be more beautiful. And this is mine 
And more than this, the love wherewith he crowns 

me. 
As if impelled by powers invisible 
And irresistible, my steps return 
Unto this spacious hall. All corridors 
And passages lead hither, and all doors 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 43 

But open into it. Yon mysterious chest 
Attracts and fascinates me. Would I knew 
What there lies hidden ! But the oracle 
Forbids. Ah me ! The secret then is safe. 
So would it be if it were in my keeping. 
A crowd of shadowy faces from the mirrors 
That line these walls are watching me. I dare not 
Lift up the lid. A hundred times the act 
Would be repeated, and the secret seen 
By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. 

She walks to the other side of the hall. 

My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, 
My eyes with seeing and my heart with waiting. 
I will lie here and rest till he returns, 
Who is my dawn, my day, my Helios. 

Throws herself upon a couch, and falls asleep. 
ZEPHYRUS. 

Come from thy caverns dark and deep, 
O son of Erebus and Night ; 



44 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

All sense of hearing and of sight 
Enfold in the serene delight 
And quietude of sleep ! 

Set all thy silent sentinels 
To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, 
And keep the evil dreams of fate 
And falsehood and infernal hate 
Imprisoned in their cells. 

But open wide the Gate of Horn, 
Whence, beautiful as planets, rise 
The dreams of truth, with starry eyes, 
And all the wondrous prophecies 
And visions of the morn. 

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE IVORY GATE. 

Ye sentinels of sleep, 
It is in vain ye keep 
Your drowsy watch before the Ivory Gate; 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 45 

Though closed the portal seems, 
The airy feet of dreams 
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. 

We phantoms are and dreams 

Born by Tartarean streams, 
As ministers of the infernal powers ; 

O son of Erebus 

And Night, behold ! we thus 
Elude your watchful wardens on the towers ! 

Erom gloomy Tartarus 

The Eates have summoned us 
To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, 

A tale to fan the fire 

Of her insane desire 
To know a secret that the Gods would keep. 

This passion, in their ire, 
The Gods themselves inspire, 



46 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

To vex mankind with evils manifold, 
So that disease and pain 
O'er the whole earth may reign, 

And nevermore return the Age of Gold. 

PANDORA, waking, 

A voice said in my sleep : " Do not delay : 

Do not delay ; the golden moments fly ! 

The oracle hath forbidden ; yet not thee 

Doth it forbid, bnt Epimetheus only ! " 

I am alone. These faces in the mirrors 

Are but the shadows and phantoms of myself; 

They cannot help nor hinder. No one sees me, 

Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing good 

And knowing evil, have created me 

Such as I am, and filled me with desire 

Of knowing good and evil like themselves. 

She ajiproaches the chest. 

I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, 

Or life or death, the moment shall decide. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 47 

She lifts the lid. A dense mist rises from the chest, and fills 
the room. Pandora falls senseless on the floor. Storm 
without. 

CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE OF HORN. 

Yes, the moment shall decide ! 
It already hath decided; 
And the secret once confided 
To the keeping of the Titan 
Now is flying far and wide, 
"Whispered, told on every side, 
To disquiet and to frighten. 

Fever of the heart and brain, 
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, 
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, 
All the evils that hereafter 
Shall afflict and vex mankind, 
All into the air have risen 
Erom the chambers of their prison ; 
Only Hope remains behind. 



48 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



VIII. 

IN THE GARDEN. 
EPIMETHEUS. 

The storm is past, but it hath left behind it 

Ruin and desolation. All the walks 

Are strewn with shattered boughs; the birds are 

silent ; 
The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, lie 

dead ; 
The swollen rivulet sobs with secret pain; 
The melancholy reeds whisper together 
As if some dreadful deed had been committed 
They dare not name, and all the air is heavy 
With an unspoken sorrow ! Premonitions, 
Foreshadowings of some terrible disaster 
Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the omen ! 



IN THE GARDEN. 49 

PANDORA, coming from the house. 

O Epimetheus, I no longer dare 

To lift mine eves to thine, nor hear thy voice, 

Being no longer worthy of thy love. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

Forgive me not, but kill me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done ? 

PANDORA. 

I pray for death, not pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

What hast thou done? 

PANDORA. 

I dare not speak of it. 



50 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me ! 

PANDORA. 

I have brought wrath and ruin on thy house ! 
My heart hath braved the oracle that guarded 
The fatal secret from us, and my hand 
Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Then all is lost ! I am indeed undone. 

PANDORA. 

I pray for punishment, and not for pardon. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Mine is the fault, not thine. On me shall fall 
The vengeance of the Gods, for I betrayed 
Their secret when, in evil hour, I said 
It was a secret; when, in evil hour, 
I left thee here alone to this temptation. 
Why did I leave thee? 



IN THE GARDEN. 51 

PANDORA. 

Why didst thou return ? 
Eternal absence would have been to me 
The greatest punishment. To be left alone 
And face to faca with my own crime, had been 
Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, 
Let all your vengeance fall ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

On thee and me. 
I do not love thee less for what, is done, 
And cannot be undone. Thy very weakness 
Hath brought thee nearer to me, and henceforth 
My love will have a sense of pity in it, 
Making it less a worship than before. 

PANDORA. 

Pity me not; pity is degradation. 
Love me and kill me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful Pandora ! 
Thou art a Goddess still ! , 



52 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

PANDORA. 

I am a woman; 
And the insurgent demon in my nature, 
That made me brave the oracle, revolts 
At pity and compassion. Let me die ; 
What else remains for me ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth, hope, and love : 
To build a new life on a ruined life, 
To make the future fairer than the past, 
And make the past appear a troubled dream. 
Even now in passing through the garden walks 
Upon the ground I saw a fallen nest 
Euined and full of rain ; and over me 
Beheld the uncomplaining birds already 
Busy in building a new habitation. 

PANDORA. 

Auspicious omen ! 



IN THE GARDEN. 53 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May the Eumenides 
Put out their torches and behold us not, 
And fling away their whips of scorpions 
And touch us not. 



Me let them punish. 
Only through punishment of our evil deeds, 
Only through suffering, are we reconciled 
To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

Never shall souls like these 

Escape the Eumenides, 
The daughters dark of Acheron and Night ! 

Unquenched our torches glare, 

Our scourges in the air 
Send forth prophetic sounds before they smite. 



54 THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

Never by lapse of time 

The soul defaced by crime 
Into its former self returns again ; 

For every guilty deed 

Holds in itself the seed 
Of retribution and undying pain. 

Never shall be the loss 

Bestored, till Helios 
Hath purified them with his heavenly fires; 

Then what was lost is won, 

And the new life begun, 
Kindled with nobler passions and desires. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 



I. 



The lights are out, and gone are all the guests 
That thronging came with merriment and jests 

To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane 
In the new house, — into the night are gone; 
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, 
And I alone remain. 



O fortunate, happy day, 
When a new household finds its place 
Among the myriad homes of earth, 
Like a new star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonious way 
Into the boundless realms of space ! 

3* 



58 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

So said the guests in speech and song, 
As in the chimney, burning bright, 
We hung the iron crane to-night, 
And merry was the feast and long. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 59 



II. 



And now I sit and muse on what may be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to see, 

Through floating vapors interfused with light, 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, 
As shadows passing into deeper shade 
Sink and elude the sight. 



For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps, but, more divine, 

The light of love, shines over all; 

Of love, that says not mine and thine, 

But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 



60 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

They want no guests, to come between 

Their tender glances like a screen, 

And tell them tales of land and sea. 

And whatsoever may betide 

The great, forgotten world outside; 

They want no guests; they needs must be 

Each other's own best company. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 61 



III. 



The picture fades; as at a village fair 
A showman's views, dissolving into air, 

Again appear transfigured on the screen, 
So in my fancy this; and now once more, 
In part transfigured, through the open door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 



Seated, I see the two again, 

But not alone; they entertain 

A little angel unaware, 

With face as round as is- the moon ; 

A royal guest with flaxen hair, 

Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 

Drums on the table with his spoon, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 

Are these celestial manners? these 

The ways that win, the arts that please.? 

Ah yes; consider well the gnest, 

And whatsoever he does seems best; 

He ruleth by the right divine 

Of helplessness, so lately born 

In purple chambers of the morn, 

As sovereign over thee and thine. 

He speaketh not; and yet there lies 

A conversation in his eyes; 

The golden silence of the Greek, 

The gravest wisdom of the wise, 

Not spoken in language, but in looks 

More legible than printed books, 

As if he could but wonld not speak. 

And now, monarch absolute 1 , 

Thy power is put to proof; for, lo ! 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 63 

Besistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 



64 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



IV. 



As one who walking in a forest sees 

A lovely landscape through the parted trees, 

Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene; 
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 



There are two guests at table now; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on his sister's brow; 
A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All covered and embowered in curls, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 65 

Bose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge, 
Soft-shining through the summer night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to be. 



QQ THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene, 

And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite; 
And now I see the table wider grown, 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 



I see the table wider groAvn, 

I see it garlanded with guests, 

As if fair Ariadne's Crown 

Out of the sky had fallen down; 

Maidens within Avhose tender breasts 

A thousand restless hopes and fears, 

Forth reaching to the coming years, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 67 

Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 

Like timid birds that fain would fly, 

But do not dare, to leave their nests ; — 

And youths, who in their strength elate 

Challenge the van and front of fate, 

Eager as champions to be 

In the divine knight-errantry 

Of youth, that travels sea and land 

Seeking adventures, or pursues, 

Through cities, and through solitudes 

Erequented by the lyric Muse, 

The phantom with the beckoning hand, 

That still allures and still eludes. 

sweet illusions of the brain ! 

sudden thrills of fire and frost \ 

The world is bright while ye remain, 

And dark and dead when ye are lost ! 



68 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



VI. 



The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 
Quickens its current as it nears the mill; 

And so the stream of Time that lingereth 
In level places, and so dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of Death. 



And now, like tlie magician's scroll, 

That in the owner's keeping shrinks 

With every wish he speaks or thinks, 

Till the last wish consumes the whole, 

The table dwindles, and again 

I see the two alone remain. 

The crown of stars is broken in parts; 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 69 

Its jewels, brighter than the day, 

Have one by one been stolen away 

To shine in other homes and hearts. 

One is a wanderer now afar 

In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 

Or sunny regions of Cathay; 

And one is in the boisterous camp 

Mid clink of arms and horses" tramp, 

And battle's terrible array. 

I see the patient mother read, 

With aching heart, of wrecks that float 

Disabled on those seas remote, 

Or of some great heroic deed 

On battle-fields, where thousands bleed 

To lift one hero into fame. 

Anxious she bends her graceful head 

Above these chronicles of pain, 

And trembles with a secret dread 

Lest there among the drowned or slain 

She find the one beloved name. 



70 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



VII. 



After a clay of cloud and wind and rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, 

And, touching all the darksome woods with light, 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 



What see I now? The night is fair, 
The storm of grief, the clouds of care, 
The wind, the rain, have passed away ; 
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, 
The house is full of life and light : 
It is the Golden Wedding day. 
The guests come thronging in once more, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 71 

Quick footsteps sound along the floor, 
The trooping children crowd the stair, 
And in and out and everywhere 
Flashes along the corridor 
The sunshine of their golden hair. 

On the round table in the hall 
Another Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky hath fallen down; 
More than one Monarch of the Moon 
Is drumming with his silver spoon ; 
The light of love shines over all. 

fortunate, happy day ! 

The people sing, the people say. 

The ancient bridegroom and the bride, 

Smiling contented and serene 

Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, 

Behold, well-pleased, on every side 

Their forms and features multiplied, 



72 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

As the reflection of a light 
Between two burnished mirrors gleams, 
Or lamps upon a bridge at night 
Stretch on and on before the sight, 
Till the long vista endless seems. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



POEM 

FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS 
OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 



Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, 
Et fugiunt l'ri'iio non remorante dies. 

Ovid, Fastorwn Lib. vi. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS 



" O CyESAR, we who are about to die 
Salute you ! " was the gladiators' cry 
In the arena, standing face to face 
With death and with the Roman populace. 

ye familiar scenes, — ye groves of pine, 
That once were mine and are no longer mine,— 
Thou river, widening through the meadows green 
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen, — 
Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose 
Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose 
And vanished, — we who are about to die 
Salute you ; earth and air and sea and sky, 



76 MORITURI SALTJTAMUS. 

And the Imperial Sun that scatters down 
His sovereign splendors upon grove and town. 

Ye do not answer us ! ye do not hear ! 
We are forgotten; and in your austere 
And calm indifference, ye little care 
Whether we come or go, or whence or where. 
What passing generations fill these halls, 
What passing voices echo from these Avails, 
Ye heed not ; we are only as the blast, 
A moment heard, and then forever past. 

Not so the teachers who in earlier days 
Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze ; 
They answer us — alas ! what have I said ? 
What greetings come there from the voiceless dead ? 
What salutation, welcome, or reply ? 
What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie ? 
They are no longer here ; they all are gone 
Into the land of shadows, — all save one. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 77 

Honor and reverence, and the good repnte 
That follows faithfnl service as its fruit, 
Be unto him, whom living we salute. 

The great Italian poet, when he made 

His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, 

Met there the old instructor of his youth, 

And cried in tones of pity and of ruth : 

"O, never from the memory of my heart 

Your dear, paternal image shall depart, 

Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, 

Taught me how mortals are immortalized; 

How grateful am I for that patient care 

All my life long my language shall declare/' 

To-day we make the poet's words our own, 
And utter them in plaintive undertone ; 
Nor to the living only be they said, 
But to the other living called the dead, 
"Whose dear, paternal images appear 



78 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine 

here ; 
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, 
Were part and parcel of great Nature's law; 
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, 
" Here is thy talent in a napkin laid/'' 
But labored in their sphere, as men who live 
In the delight that work alone can give. 
Peace be to them ; eternal peace and rest, 
And the fulfilment of the great behest : 
"Ye have been faithful over a few tilings, 
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." 

And ye who fill the places we once filled, 
And follow in the furrows that we tilled, 
Young men, whose generous hearts are beating 

high, 
We who are old, and are about to die, 
Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, 
And crown you with our welcome as with flowers ! 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 79 

How beautiful is youth ! how bright it gleams 
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 
Book of Beginnings, Story without End, 
Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend ! 
Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, 
That holds the treasures of the universe ! 
All possibilities are in its hands, 
No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; 
In its sublime audacity of faith, 
" Be thou removed ! " it to the mountain saith, 
xlnd with ambitious feet, secure and proud, 
Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud ! 

As ancient Priam at the Scsean gate 

Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state 

With the old men, too old and weak to fight, 

Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight 

To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, f 

Of Trojans and- Achaians in the field ; 

So from the snowy summits of our years 



80 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

We see you in the plain, as each appears, 
And question of you ; asking, " Who is he 
That towers above the others ? Which may be 
Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, 
Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus ? " 

Let him not boast who puts his armor on 
As he who puts it off, the battle done. 
Study yourselves ; and most of all note well 
Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. 
Not every blossom ripens into fruit ; 
Minerva, the inventress of the flute, 
Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed 
Distorted in a fountain as she played ; 
The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate 
Was one to make the bravest hesitate. 

Write on your doors the saying wise and old, 
" Be bold ! be bold ! " and everywhere — " Be bold ; 
Be not too bold ! " Yet better the excess 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 81 

Than the defect ; better the more than less ; 
Better like Hector in the field to die, 
Than like a perfumed Paris tnrn and fly. 

And now, my classmates ; ye remaining few 
That number not the half of those we knew, 
Ye, against whose familiar names not yet 
The fatal asterisk of death is set, 
Ye I salute ! The horologe of Time 
Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, 
And summons us together once again, 
The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. 

Where are the others ? Yoices from the deep 
Caverns of darkness answer me : " They sleep ! " 
I name no names; instinctively I feel 
Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, 
And from the inscription wipe the weeds and 

moss, 
For every heart best knoweth its own loss. 

4* F 



82 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white 
Through the pale dusk of the impending night; 
O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws 
Its golden lilies mingled with the rose ; 
We give to each a tender thought, and pass 
Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, 
Unto these scenes frequented by our feet 
When we were young, and life was fresh and 
sweet. 

What shall I say to you? What can I say 
Better than silence is ? When I survey 
This throng of faces turned to meet my own, 
Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, 
Transformed the very landscape seems to be ; 
It is the same, yet not the same to me. 
So many memories crowd upon my brain, 
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, 
I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread, 
As from a house where some one lieth dead. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 83 

I cannot go ; — I panse ; — I hesitate" ; 
My feet reluctant linger at the gate; 
As one who struggles in a troubled dream 
To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. 

Vanish the dream ! Yanish the idle fears ! 

Yanish the rolling mists of fifty years 1 

Whatever time or space may intervene, 

I will not be a stranger in this scene. 

Here every doubt, all indecision ends; 

Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends ! 

Ah me ! the fifty years since last we met 
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set 
By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, 
Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. 
What tragedies, what comedies, are there ; 
What joy and grief, what rapture and despair ! 
What chronicles of triumph and defeat, 
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat ! 



84 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears ! 
"What pages blotted, blistered by our tears ! 
What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, 
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine 
And holy images of love and trust, 
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust ! 

Whose hand shall dare to open and explore 
These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore ? 
Not mine. With reverential feet I pass ; 
I hear a voice that cries, " Alas ! alas ! 
Whatever hath been written shall remain, 
Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; 
The unwritten only still belongs to thee : 
Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be." 

As children frightened by a thunder- cloud 
Are reassured if some one reads aloud 
A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, 
Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 85 

Let me endeavor with a tale to chase 
The gathering shadows of the time and place, 
And banish what we all too deeply feel 
Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. 

In medieval Borne, I know not Avhere, 
There stood an image with its arm in air, 
And on its lifted finger, shining clear, 
A golden ring with the device, " Strike here ! " 
Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed 
The meaning that these words but half expressed, 
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday 
With downcast eyes was passing on his way, 
Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it 

well, 
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell; 
And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found 
A secret stairway leading under ground. 
Down this he passed into a spacious hall, 
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall ; 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



And opposite in threatening attitude 

With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. 

Upon its forehead, like a coronet, 

Were these mysterious words of menace set : 

" That which I am, I am ; my fatal aim 

None can escape, not even yon luminous flame ! " 

Midway the hall was a fair table placed, 
With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased 
With rubies, and the i)lates and knives were gold, 
And gold the bread and viands manifold. 
Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, 
Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, 
And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, 
But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; 
And the vast hall was filled in every part 
With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. 

Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed 
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 87 

Then from the table, by his greed made bold, 

He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, 

And suddenly from their seats the guests up- 

sprang, 
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, 
The .archer sped his arrow, at their call, 
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, 
And all was dark around and overhead ; — 
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead ! 

The writer of this legend then records 

Its ghostly application in these words : 

The image is the Adversary old, 

Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold ; 

Our lusts and passions are the downward stair 

That leads the soul from a diviner air; 

The archer, Death ; the flaming jewel, Life ; 

Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; 

The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone 

By avarice have been hardened into stone; 



88 MOEITURI SALUTAMUS. 

The clerk, the scholar whom, the love of pelf 
Tempts from his books and from his nobler 
self. 

The scholar and the world ! The endless strife, 

The discord in the harmonies of life ! 

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, 

And all the sweet serenity of books ; 

The market-place, the eager love of gain, 

Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain ! 

But why, you ask me, should this tale be told 
To men grown old, or who are growing old ? 
It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late 
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. 
Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles 
Wrote his grand CEdipus, and Simonides 
Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, 
When each had numbered more than fourscore 



MOEITUEI SALUTAMUS. 89 

And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, 
Had but begun bis Characters of Men. 
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, 
At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales ; 
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, 
Completed Faust when eighty years were past. 
These are indeed exceptions; but they show 
How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow 
Into the arctic regions of our lives, 
Where little else than life itself survives. 

As the barometer foretells the storm 
While still the skies are clear, the weather warm, 
So something in us, as old age draws near, 
Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. 
The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, 
Descends the elastic ladder of the air; 
The telltale blood in artery and vein 
Sinks from its higher levels in the brain; 
Whatever poet, orator, or sage 



90 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 

May say of it, old age is still old age. 
It is the waning, not the crescent moon, 
The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon : 
It is not strength, but weakness; not desire, 
But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, 
The burning and consuming element, 
But that of ashes and of embers spent, 
In which some living sparks we still discern, 
Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. 

What then? Shall we sit idly down and say 
The night hath come ; it is no longer day ? 
The night hath not yet come; we are not quite 
Cut off from labor by the failing light; 
Something remains for us to do or dare ; 
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; 
Xot (Edipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, 
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode 
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, 
But other something, would we but begin; 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 91 

Eor age is opportunity no less 
Than youth itself, though in another dress, 
And as the evening twilight fades away 
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

FLIGHT THE FOURTH. 



CHARLES SUMNEE. 

Garlands upon his grave, 
And flowers upon his hearse, 
And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 

His was the troubled life, 
The conflict and the pain, 
The grief, the bitterness of strife, 
The honor without stain. 

Like Winkelried, he took 
Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke 
A path for the oppressed. 



96 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation's heart 
Borne like a warrior on his shield ! 
So should the brave depart. 

Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet; 
The great design unfinished lies, 
Our lives are incomplete. 

But in the dark unknown 
Perfect their circles seem, 
Even as a bridge's arch of stone 
Is rounded in the stream. 



Alike are life and death, 
When life in death survives, 
And the uninterrupted breath 
Inspires a thousand lives. 



CHARLES SUMNER. 97 

Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light, 
Still travelling downward from the sky, 
Shine on our mortal sight. 



So when a great man dies, 
For years beyond our ken, 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men. 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 

And yonder gilded vane, 
Immovable for three days past, 

Points to the misty main. 

It drives me in upon myself 

And to the fireside gleams, 
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, 

And still more pleasant dreams. 

I read whatever bards have sung 

Of lands beyond the sea, 
And the bright days when I was young 

Come thronging back to me. 



TRAVELS BY THE FIRES WE. 99 

In fancy I can hear again 

The Alpine torrent's roar, 
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 

The sea at Elsinore. 



I see the convent's gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pine, 

And towers of old cathedrals tall, 
And castles by the Rhine. 

I journey on by park and spire, 

Beneath centennial trees, 
Through fields with poppies all on fire, 

And gleams of distant seas. 

I fear no more the dust and heat, 

No more I feel fatigue, 
While journeying with another's feet 

O'er many a lengthening league. 

LOfC. 



100 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Let others traverse sea and land. 
And toil through various climes, 

I turn the world round with my hand 
Reading these poets' rhymes. 

From them I learn whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zone, 

And see, when looking with their eyes, 
Better than with mine own. 



CAPENABBIA 



LAKE OF COMO. 



No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks 
The silence of the summer day, 

As by the loveliest of all lakes 
I while the idle hours away. 

I pace the leafy colonnade 

Where level branches of the plane 
Above me weave a roof of shade 

Impervious to the sun and rain. 

At times a sudden rush of air 
Flutters the lazy leaves overhead, 

And gleams of sunshine toss and flare 
Like torches down the path I tread. 



102 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

By Somariva's garden gate 

I make the marble stairs my seat, 

And hear the water, as I wait, 

Lapping the steps beneath my feet. 

The undulation sinks and swells 

Along the stony parapets, 
And far away the floating bells 

Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 

Silent and slow, by tower and town 
The freighted barges come and go, 

Their pendent shadows gliding down 
By town and tower submerged below. 

The hills sweep upward from the shore, 
With villas scattered one by one 

Upon their wooded spurs, and lower 
Bella ggio blazing in the sun. 



CADENABBIA. 103 

And dimly seen, a tangled mass 

Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 

Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass 
Varenna with its white cascade. 

I ask myself, Is this a dream? 

Will it all vanish into air ? 
Is there a land of such supreme 

And perfect beauty anywhere ? 

Sweet vision ! Do not fade away ; 

Linger until my heart shall take 
Into itself the summer day, 

And all the beauty of the lake. 

Linger until upon my brain 

Is stamped an image of the scene, 

Then fade into the air again, 

And be as if thou hadst not been. 



MONTE CASSINO 



TERRA Dl LAVORO. 



Beautiful valley ! through whose verdant meads 
Unheard the Garigliano glides along.; — 

The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, 
The river taciturn of classic song. 



The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, 
AYhere mediaeval towns are white on all 

The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest 
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. 

There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface 

Was dragged with contumely from his throne; 

Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace 
The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own ? 



MONTE CASSLXO. 105 

There is Ceprano, where a renegade 

Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith, 

When Manfred by his men-at-arms betrayed 
Spurred on to Benevento and to death. 

There is Aquinum, the old Yolscian town, 
Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light 

Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown 
Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night. 

Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets 
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played, 

And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that he repeats 
In ponderous folios for scholastics made. 

And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud 
That pauses on a mountain summit high, 

Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud 
And venerable walls against the sky. 

3* 



106 BIBDS OF PASSAGE. 

Well I remember liow on foot I climbed 
The stony pathway leading to its gate ; 

Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, 
Below, the darkening town grew desolate. 

Well I remember the low arch and dark, 

The courtyard with its well, the terrace wide, 

From which far down the valley, like a park 
Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. 

The day was dying, and with feeble hands 
Caressed the mountain tops; the vales between 

Darkened; the river in the meadow-lands 

Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. 

The silence of the place was like a sleep, 
So full of rest it seemed; each passing tread 

Was a reverberation from the deep 
Recesses of the ages that are dead. 



MONTE CASSINO. 107 

For, more than thirteen centuries ago, 
Benedict fleeing from the gates of Koine, 

A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, 
Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. 



He founded here his Convent and his Eule 
Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer ; 

The pen became a clarion, and his school 
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. 

What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way, 
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores 

The illuminated manuscripts, that lay 
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors ? 

Boccaccio was a novelist, a child 
Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! 

This the urbane librarian said, and smiled 
Incredulous, as at some idle jest. 



108 BIRDS OF PASSAdK 

Upon sucli themes as these, with one young friar 
I sat conversing late into the night, 

Till in its cavernous chimney the wood-fire 
Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. 

And then translated, in my convent tell, 
Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay ; 

And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, 
Started from sleep ; already it was day. 

Prom the high window I beheld the scene 
On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed, — 

The mountains and the valley in the sheen 
Of the bright sun, — and stood as one amazed. 

Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing ; 

The woodlands glistened with their jewelled 
crowns ; 
Far off the mellow bells began to ring 

For matins in the half-awakened towns. 



MONTE CASSINO. 109 

The conflict of the Present and the Past, 
The ideal and the actual in our life, 

As on a field of battle held me fast, 

While this world and the next world were at 
strife. 

For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, 
I saw the iron horses of the steam 

Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, 
And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. 



AMALFI. 

Sweet the memory is to me 

Of a land beyond the sea, 

Where the waves and mountains meet, 

Where, amid her mulberry-trees 

Sits Amalfi in the heat, 

Bathing ever her white feet 

In the tideless summer seas. 

In the middle of the town, 

From its fountains in the hills, 

Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 

The Canneto rushes down, 

Turns the great wheels of the mills, 

Lifts the hammers of the fore;e. 



AMALFI. HI 

'T is a stairway, not a street, 
That ascends the deep ravine, 
Where the torrent leaps between 
Kocky walls that almost meet. 
Toiling up from stair to stair 
Peasant girls their burdens bear ; 
Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 
Stately figures tall and straight, 
What inexorable fate 
Dooms them to this life of toil ? 

Lord of vineyards and of lands, 
Far above the convent stands. 
On its terraced walk aloof 
Leans a monk with folded hands, 
Placid, satisfied, serene, 
Looking down upon the scene 
Over wall and red-tiled roof; 
Wondering unto what good end 
All this toil and traffic tend, 



112 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

And why all men cannot be 

Free from care and free from pain, 

And the sordid love of gain, 

And as indolent as he. 

Where are now the freighted barks 
From the marts of east and west? 
Where the knights in iron sarks 
Journeying to the Holy Land, 
Glove of steel upon the hand, 
Cross of crimson on the breast ? 
Where the pomp of camp and court ? 
Where the pilgrims with their prayers ? 
Where the merchants with their wares, 
And their gallant britmn^ines 
Sailing safely into port 
Chased by corsair Algerines ? 

Vanished like a fleet of cloud, 
Like a passing trumpet-blast, 
Are those splendors of the past, 



AMALFI. 113 

And the commerce and the crowd ! 
Fathoms deep beneath the seas 
Lie the ancient wharves and quays, 
Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; 
Silent streets and vacant halls, 
Ruined roofs and towers and walls; 
Hidden from all mortal eyes 
Deep the sunken city lies : 
Even cities have their graves ! 

This is an enchanted land ! 
Round the headlands far away 
Sweeps the blue Salernian bay 
With its sickle of white sand : 
Further still and furthermost 
On the dim discovered coast 
Psestum with its ruins lies, 
And its roses all in bloom 
Seem to tinge the fatal skies 
Of that lonelv land of doom. 



114 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

On his terrace, high in air, 
Nothing doth the good monk care 
For such worldly themes as these. 
From the garden just below 
Little puffs of perfume blow, 
And a sound is in his ears 
Of the murmur of the bees 
In the shining chestnut-trees; 
Nothing else he heeds or hears. 
All the landscape seems to swoon 
In the happy afternoon ; 
Slowly o'er his senses creep 
The encroaching waves of sleep, 
And he sinks as sank the town, 
Unresisting, fathoms down, 
Into caverns cool and deep ! 

Walled about with drifts of snow, 
Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, 
Seeing all the landscape white, 



AMALFI. H5 

And the river cased in ice, 
Conies this memory of delight, 
Comes this vision nnto me 
Of a long-lost Paradise 
In the land beyond the sea. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 

Up soared the lark into the air, 
A shaft of song, a winged prayer, 
As if a sonl, released from pain, 
Were flying back to heaven again. 

St. Francis heard ; it was to him 
An emblem of the Seraphim ; 
The upward motion of the fire, 
The light, the heat, the heart's desire. 

Around Assises convent gate 
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, 
From moor and mere and darksome wood 
Came flocking for their dole of food. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 117 

"0 brother birds/' St. Francis said, 
"Ye come to me and ask for bread, 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 

"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, 

With manna of celestial words ; 

Not mine, though mine they seem to be, 

Not mine, though they be spoken through me. 

" 0, doubly are ye bound to praise 

The great Creator in your lays; 

He giveth you your plumes of down, 

Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown. 

" He giveth you your wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 
And careth for you everywhere, 
Who for yourselves so -little care ! " 



118 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

With flutter of swift wings and songs 
Together rose the feathered throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. 

He knew not if the brotherhood 
His homily had understood; 
He only knew that to one ear 
The meaning of his words was clear. 



BELISARIU3. 

I am poor and old and blind; 
The sun burns me, and the wind 

Blows through the city gate 
And covers me with dust 
From the wheels of the august 

Justinian the Great. 

It was for him I chased 

The Persians o'er wild and waste, 

As General of the East ; 
Night after night I lay 
In their camps of yesterday; 

Their forage was my feast. 



120 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

For him, with sails of red, 
And torches at mast-head, 

Piloting the great fleet, 
I swept the Afric coasts 
And scattered the Vandal hosts, 

Like dust in a windy street. 

For him I won again 

The Ausonian realm and reign, 

Home and Parthenope ; 
And all the land was mine 
Prom the summits of Apennine 

To the shores of either sea. 

For him, in my feeble age, 
I dared the battle's rage, 

To save Byzantium's state, 
When the tents of Zabergan, 
Like snow-drifts overran 

The road to the Golden Gate. 



BELISARIVS. 121 

And for this, for this, behold ! 
Infirm and blind and old, 

"With gray, uncovered head, 
Beneath the very arch 
Of my triumphal march, 

I stand and beg my bread ! 

Methinks I still can hear, 
Sounding distinct and near, 

The Vandal monarch's cry, 
As, captive and disgraced, 
With majestic step he paced, — 

" All, all is Vanity ! " 

Ah! vainest of all things 
Is the gratitude of kings; 

The plaudits of the crowd 
Are but the clatter of feet 
At midnight in the street, 

Hollow and restless and loud. 

6 



122 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



But the bitterest disgrace 



Is to see forever the face 

Of the Monk of Epliesus ! 
The unconquerable will 
This, too, can bear ; — I still 
Am Belisarius ! 



SONGO EIVER. 

Nowhere such a devious stream, 
Save in fancy or in dream, 
Winding slow through bush and brake 
Links together lake and lake. 

Walled with woods or sandy shelf, 
Ever doubling on itself 
Flows the stream, so still and slow 
That it hardly seems to flow. 

Never errant knight of old, 
Lost in woodland or on wold, 
Such a winding path pursued 
Through the sylvan solitude. 



124 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Never school-boy in his quest 
After hazel-nut or nest, 
Through the forest in and out 
Wandered loitering thus about. 



In the mirror of its tide 
Tangled thickets on each side 
Hang inverted, and between 
Floating cloud or sky serene. 



Swift or swallow on the wing 
Seems the only living thing, 
Or the loon, that laughs and flies 
Down to those reflected skies. 



Silent stream ! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame; 
For thou hidest here alone, 
Well content to be unknown. 



SONGO RIVER. 125 

But thy tranquil waters teach 
Wisdom deep as human speech, 
Moving without haste or noise 
In unbroken equipoise. 

Though thou turnest no busy mill, 
And art ever calm and still, 
Even thy silence seems to say 
To the traveller on his way : — 

" Traveller, hurrying from the heat 
Of the city, stay thy feet ! 
Best awhile, nor longer waste 
Life with inconsiderate haste ! 

"Be not like a stream that brawls 
Loud with shallow waterfalls, 
But in quiet self-control 
Link together soul and soul." 



A BOOK OF SONNETS 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 



When I remember them, those friends of mine, 
Who are no longer here, the noble three, 
Who half my life were more than friends to me, 
And whose discourse was like a generous wine, 

I most of all remember the divine 

Something, that shone in them, and made us see 
The archetypal man, and what might be 
The amplitude of Nature's first design. 

In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands ; 
I cannot find them. Nothing now is left 
But a majestic memory. They meanwhile 

Wander together in Elysian lands, 

Perchance remembering me, w r ho am bereft 
Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. 



130 A B00K 0F SONNETS. 



II. 



In Attica thy birthplace should have been, 
Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas 
Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, 
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene 

And childlike joy of life, Philhelene ! 

Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees ; 
Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, 
And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. 

For thee old legends breathed historic breath ; 
Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, 
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of gold ! 

O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, 
That thou shouldst die before thou hadst 
grown old ! 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 131 



III. 



I stand again on the familiar shore, 

And hear the waves of the distracted sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting thee, 
And waiting restless at thy cottage door. 

The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, 
The willows in the meadow, and the free 
"Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me ; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no 
more ? 

Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men 
Are busy with their trivial affairs, 
Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read 

Nature's mysterious manuscript, and then 
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, 
Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst thou be 
dead ? 



132' A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



IV. 



Biver, that stealest with such silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, where lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and whom these 

eyes 
Shall see no more in his accustomed place, 

Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace 

And say good night, for now the western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise 
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. 

Good night ! good night ! as we so oft have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 
That are no more, and shall no more return. 

Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed ; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn. 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 133 



The doors are all wide open; at the gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze,, 
And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze 
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate, 

And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, 
The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, 
Writes the last letter of his name, and stays 
His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. 

I also wait; but they will come no more, 
Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me ! 

They have forgotten the pathway to my door ! 
Something is gone from nature since they died, 
And summer is not summer, nor can be. 



134 A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



CHAUCER. 



An old man in a lodge within a park; 
The chamber walls depicted all around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound, 
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, 

Whose song comes with the sunshine through the 
dark 
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound, 
Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 

He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song; and as I read 

I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead. 



SHAKESPEARE. 135 



SHAKESPEARE. 



A vision as of crowded city streets, 
With human life in endless overflow; 
Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow 
To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, 

Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets ; 
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below 
Yoices of children, and bright flowers that throw 
O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets ! 

This vision comes to me when I unfold 
The volume of the Poet paramount, 
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; — ■ 

Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, 

And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, 
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. 



136 A B00K 0F SONNETS. 



MILTON. 

I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold 
How the voluminous billows roll and run, 
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun 
Shines through their sheeted emerald far un- 
rolled, 

And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold 
All its loose-flowing garments into one, 
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun 
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold. 

So in majestic cadence rise and fall 
The mighty undulations of thy song, 
sightless bard, England's Mseonides ! 

And ever and anon, high over all 

Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong, 
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas. 



KEATS. 137 



KEATS. 



The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep ; 
The shepherd -boy whose tale was left half told ! 
The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold 
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep 

The nightingale is singing from the steep; 
It is midsummer, but the air is cold; 
Can it be death ? Alas, beside the fold 
A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep. 

Lo ! in the moonlight gleams a marble white, 
On which I read : " Here lieth one whose name 
Was writ in water/'' And was this the meed 

Of his sweet singing ? Rather let me w T rite : 
"The smoking flax before it burst to flame 
AYas quenched by death, and broken the bruised 
reed." 



138 -4 BOOK OF SONNETS. 



THE GALAXY. 



Torrent of light and river of the air, 

Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen 
Like gold and silver sands in some ravine 
Where mountain streams have left their chan- 
nels bare ! 

The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where 
His patron saint descended in the sheen 
Of his celestial armor, on serene 
And quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair. 

Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable 

Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched the skies 
Where'er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod; 

But the white drift of worlds o'er chasms of sable, 
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies 
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 139 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, 
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide 
I heard the first wave of the rising tide 
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; 

A voice out of the silence of the deep, 
A sound mysteriously multiplied 
As of a cataract from the mountain's side, 
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. 

So comes to us at times, from the unknown 
And inaccessible solitudes of being, 
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; 

And inspirations, that we deem our own, 

Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing 
Of things beyond our reason or control. 



140 A BOOK OF SOXXETS. 



A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. 

The sun is set ; and in his latest beams 
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, 
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, 
The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. 

From the dim headlands many a lighthouse gleams. 
The street-lamps of the ocean ; and behold, 
Overhead the banners of the night unfold; 
The day hath passed into the land of dreams. 

summer day beside the joyous sea ! 
O summer day so wonderful and white, 
So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 

Forever and forever shalt thou be 

To some the gravestone of a dead delight, 
To some the landmark of a new domain. 



SEA-TIDES. 141 



THE TIDES. 

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, 
The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand, 
And the brown rocks left bare on every hand, 
As if the ebbing tide would flow no more. 

Then heard I, more distinctly than before, 
The ocean breathe and its great breast expand, 
And hurrying came on the defenceless land 
The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar. 

All thought and feeling and desire, I said, 
Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song 
Have ebbed from me forever ! Suddenly o'er 
me 

They swept again from their deep ocean bed, 
And in a tumult of delight, and strong 
As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me. 



142 ^ BOOK OF SONNETS. 



A SHADOW. 



I said unto myself, if I were dead, 

What would befall these children ? What would 

be 
Their fate, who now are looking up to me 
For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said, 

Would be a volume wherein I have read 
But the first chapters, and no longer see 
To read the rest of their dear history, 
So full of beauty and so full of dread. 

Be comforted ; the world is very old, 

And generations pass, as they have passed, 
A troop of shadows moving with the sun; 

Thousands of times has the old tale been told ; 
The world belongs to those who come the last, 
They will find hope and strength as we have 
done. 



A NAMELESS GRAVE. 143 



A NAMELESS GKAVE. 

" A soldier of the Union mustered out/' 
Is the inscription on an unknown grave 
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave, 
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout 

Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave 
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt. 

Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea 
In thy forgotten grave ! with secret shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn, 

When I remember thou hast given for me 
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name, 
And I can give thee nothing in return. 



144 A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



SLEEP. 

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound 
Seems from some faint iEolian harpstring caught; 
Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought 
As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound 

The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound; 
For I am weary, and am overwrought 
With too much toil, with too much care dis- 
traught, 
And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. 

Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, 

peaceful Sleep ! until from pain released 

1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! 

Ah, witli what subtile meaning did the Greek 
Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast 
Whereof the greater mystery is death ! 



THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE. 145 



THE OLD BRIDGE AT ELOEENCE. 

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 

Eive centuries old. I plant my foot of stone 
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's oavh 
Was planted on the dragon. Eold by fold 

Beneath me as it struggles, I behold 

Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown 
My kindred and companions. Me alone 
It moveth not, but is by me controlled. 

I can remember when the Medici 

Were driven from Florence j longer still ago 
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. 

Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; 
And when I think that Michael Angelo 
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. 



146 IL PONTE VECCH10 Dl FIRENZE. 

IL PONTE VECCHIO DI EIEENZE. 

Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono; 
Cinquecent' anni gia sulF Arno pianto 
II piede, come il suo Micliele Santo 
Pianto sul draco. Mentre c\\' io ragiono 

Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono 

Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi affranto 
Dae volte i miei maggior. Me solo intanto 
Neppure muove, ed io non Y abbandono. 

Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati 
I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino 
E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. 

Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati; 
E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino 
Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento. 



